


Reciprocal

by Ewebie, jamlockk



Series: JamBie Productions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of everything that's happened, John has withdrawn and feels further away than ever. He won't touch anyone unless he's offering medical assistance, barely tolerates being at Baker Street and never stays, always going back to that horrid flat in the suburbs. Sherlock desperately wants to help John heal but he knows it's all his fault. Whatever John is struggling with now, Sherlock knows he is the one to blame. </p>
<p>Sherlock is still here, despite everything that John has put him through. He's taking on cases again and he's as brilliant and incredible as ever, but he's so fragile too. John knows what it's like to almost lose him, has almost lost him too many times now. John cannot lose Sherlock again, so he makes sure to keep his best friend at arm's length, for his own safety. It's too dangerous to be close to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This was born of my need to have a touch-starved Sherlock try to help a broken John. As usual I dragged in Ewebie to join in the angsty fun. E writes John and I flail at the perfection. I write Sherlock and E corrects my typos and silly errors. Enjoy. ~ Jam

  
He watched from the window, knowing how it would sting but helpless to stop himself, as John reached the corner and disappeared from view. The winter night wrapped like a thick cloak around the street outside, the violent orange of the streetlamps muted in the cold fog of late evening.

It had only been a few months and Sherlock knew that it would take time for his friend to heal, for them to even begin to return to the easy companionship they had had before. It had been getting increasingly difficult to hide the longing though, this past few months. John hadn't moved back into Baker Street as Sherlock had hoped he would; he was still living in that awful suburban flat he shared with his "wife". Suffocating and tiny, Sherlock had been there once or twice and found it unutterably hateful. Within its confines John seemed to shrink, appear much smaller, as if the Cath Kidston cheerfulness of his surroundings were reducing him to a shadow, a poor facsimile of himself.

Sherlock could picture the scene as John arrived home; shoulders drawn in and slumped, the left just beginning to ache. John would hide his discomfort, would sink onto the sofa (Sherlock could tell that he never slept in his marital bed), brightly coloured cushions and walls and artwork mocking the roiling mass of grief and anger at John's core. John would snort and reach for the bottle of whisky that had somehow moved from the kitchen cupboard to the coffee table. He would pour a reasonable measure into his glass and drink it slowly. Slowly and carefully, mindful of his memories but craving the oblivion. He would drink it slowly until he was no longer drinking slowly. Then it would fall to the floor with a soft clink and a gentle slosh of liquid, the glass slipping from his hand to join it, its contents spilling and seeping into the carpet. John's head would drop to his (right) shoulder, his face losing some of its misery as he dozed quietly. The night would crawl by and eventually a new day would peer around the curtains and wash the man on the sofa in a new wave of self-loathing.

Sherlock hated it. More than hating to see his John in pain, he hated that there was nothing he could do to alleviate it. After all, it was his decision, his error, made on a rooftop those long years ago that had driven the assassin they had known as Mary Morstan into John's path. Sherlock's actions had set it all in motion, pushed to the edge by Moriarty and his deadly game.

Drawing back from the window and folding himself into his own chair, Sherlock curled to fit into the space and rested his forehead on his knees. The flat was cold and dark now. He could hear John's voice echo in his mind as he recalled and committed to memory the details of the case they had just completed. Yet he found he couldn't focus on the case itself; instead his mind insisted on presenting the way John had looked pouring over the papers in the safety deposit box, brow furrowed and lips pressed thin, searching at Sherlock's request for a particular word or phrase. Not that Sherlock had needed the assistance, of course, but John needed to feel useful, needed to feel needed again. And the way John had smiled when Sherlock had laid out the details for their client, the bank manager looking astonished to be caught out. The way John's eyes had glittered and somehow looked a deeper blue as he'd muttered to himself that the bastard shouldn't have run, pinning the culprit to the floor beneath an efficient military hold. The hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth when Sherlock waved Dimmock through to make the arrest.

As his mind uselessly filed through image after image, after memory after memory of John, Sherlock felt his chest grow heavier and heavier. John was still an illuminator, his conductor of light, but he glowed more dully than Before. He was subdued and quiet. He had always somewhat faded into the background as Sherlock shone, something they had often both taken advantage of on cases, but it was as if there were mere echoes of John standing in where he had once been. Even as he faded though John still filled all of Sherlock's empty spaces, all of the gaps in his heart, finishing all of the unfinished lines and shapes. Completing Sherlock himself.

The distance and the drinking was too much for Sherlock to bear. John had become so cautious that the incidental touches that had characterised so much of their time together, Before and After, even in evidence during Sherlock's recovery the previous autumn, were gone. It had not escaped the notice of anyone who knew John well enough that he bristled and drew away from the merest brush. He covered it well and was never unkind but he had all but withdrawn from physical contact except when supplying medical help or assisting in restraining a criminal. To the extent that even Mrs Hudson no longer was free to hug, kiss and chide as she had once been.

Sherlock tried to be content with their friendship as it now stood but he longed to reach out and offer comfort. Just a hand on the shoulder. Or a pat on the knee. Knowing such overtures would be pushed away and eager to never make John angry enough to leave and refuse to return, Sherlock stayed his hand. His memories of John's touch would sustain him.

John's hand on his wrist as he lay limply on the cold pavement. John's fists on his lapels as he shoved Sherlock roughly to the ground in a fancy hotel restaurant. John's hand on his neck and his arm around Sherlock's back during that horridly awkward embrace at the wedding dinner. The vague sensation of John's hands on his chest as he lay bleeding and in agony on Magnussen's penthouse floor. The caring, all too fleeting, touches of his recovery. The feeling of John's hand in his as they shook hands before Sherlock got on the plane.

It should have been enough, it should have been more than enough to keep him going. But it wasn't and it never would be.

Curling tighter in on himself Sherlock came to a decision. No matter what, he wouldn't put his friend through any more pain and anguish. No more reminders of a life that could (should) have been. If it was distance that John required, Sherlock would honour the unspoken request. Regardless of what came up, he would take on his next case alone.

\------

_Ding._

The sound of his text alert woke Sherlock from his awkward doze on the sofa where he had lain for most of the night. John was still on his mind but the promise of a new puzzle had him reaching for his phone and thumbing across the screen to open the message from Lestrade.

_Kidnapping, 27 year old woman. Belmont Street. Need your help, can you come? -GL_

Sherlock stood stiffly and, taking a deep breath, hurried to his room to quickly change his clothes. Fresh suit hastily thrown on, he tapped out a curt reply to Lestrade to say he was on his way and reached for his coat. He paused at the top of the stairs, phone still in his hand, fingers twitching over a blank message. Sherlock's face betrayed no sense of the twisted anguish he felt; he desperately wanted to text John ( _Case, could be dangerous. Meet at Belmont Street -SH_ ) but he recalled he had decided only a few hours ago to leave John alone, give him the space he clearly wanted and needed.

Sherlock clicked the message closed, unsent. If his steps felt heavier than usual on the seventeen stairs down to the street he refused to acknowledge it.

\------

"Where's John?"

Sherlock ignored Lestrade's question in favour of striding through to the kitchen to examine the evidence. Lestrade followed him silently, already radiating concern. Sergeant Donovan was standing at the back door of the house, holding a thin file. Sherlock nodded to her, his eyes darted around the room as he drank in the data, keen to lose himself in the rush of seeking the solution.

He heard Donovan mutter something as she fished out the photo of the victim, before she joined Lestrade at the other side of the room. Sherlock did his utmost to drown out their conversation as he pulled together the threads to figure out where the missing woman would be being held, but he couldn't help overhearing what was being said.

"What's up with him? Where's John?"

Lestrade sighed in response to Donovan's vaguely sneering tone and his reply was laced with worry.

"He's fine," Lestrade said, "I don't know where John is but Sherlock never mentioned he'd be coming. So I dunno, maybe at the surgery or something, joining later?"

Donovan made a disbelieving noise in her throat but said nothing. Sherlock forced himself to focus back onto the information in front of him. None of them spoke for a minute, the only sound in the room the ticking of the clock on the wall.

"Any ideas yet?" Lestrade addressed him, but Sherlock didn't turn around and waved a hand for quiet. Donovan snorted.

"See he's back to normal then, flicking those ludicrous yaoi hands at us."

"Leave it out, Donovan. He's here to help, just.. Let him concentrate, huh?" Lestrade said tiredly.

"You have always been too soft with him," Donovan snapped. "At least when John was here with him, he'd have been a bit better behaved. Still so far up his own arse, always the great consulting detective..."

Sherlock wasn't sure if Donovan had seen it, the almost invisible, involuntary flinch, but Lestrade certainly had.

"Oi! Enough! Go check in with Anderson, see if he's finished processing the bedroom yet." Donovan huffed but obediently left, her footsteps stomping up the stairs.

The culprit was almost certainly the ex-boyfriend; scuff marks on the wall and linoleum obviously made by boots like those worn by the ex, who had apparently made some new, rather questionable acquaintances in the three (no, four) weeks since the woman had broken up with him. Unemployed, bitter at losing his girlfriend and access to her reasonable wealth (well-paid part-time job as an analyst for a software firm, volunteers with a children's charity on weekends, a large circle of acquaintances but a handful of close friends who were mostly young mothers), the ex had thought to terrorise the poor woman and had found three accomplices to help him.

Sherlock frowned and stared at the kitchen floor. He knelt down to examine the dirt one of the gang had tracked in and he felt rather than saw Lestrade coming over and kneeling down beside him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was soft and Sherlock knew what he was thinking. Poor Sherlock. Misses his friend, too stupid to tell him how badly he needs him. Got so used to having his help, now can't function without him. John's better off though, he'll be happy again now all that horrible business is sorted. No thanks to _this one_.

"Sherlock, is everything ok? You ok?"

Suddenly Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore, the stupid, pointless concern and the soft, gentling tones in Lestrade's voice. He knew it was unfair to blame the DI; this situation, John's absence, was entirely Sherlock's fault. But he couldn't listen to it any longer.

He stood quickly and took a step back, drawing himself up to his full height and fixing his best look of cold indifference to his face. "It's the ex-boyfriend. Made a few dodgy friends down the pub on the corner. Known to be a dive where one can find white supremacist types. Britain First, EDL, that sort. The ex wanted some revenge, frighten his former girlfriend, who, by the way, is as they say 'way out of his league', the racists were only too happy to help. Although quite how a reserved but happy woman born in London to second generation parents of Indian descent represents a radical Islamist threat to British society is a mystery not even I can solve."

Lestrade blew out a breath and nodded, his kind brown eyes full of approval. Sherlock hated how much he craved that warmth, that recognition of his skills. Brilliant, John would’ve said, and Sherlock would’ve locked that sound and that feeling away deep, somewhere safe. He hated that he needed it but more than that, he hated that it was Lestrade and not John providing it.

"So, any idea where they've taken her then?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face. He knew roughly where they were holding and most likely terrifying the poor woman. He could get there faster by himself though, just to confirm his suspicions. Then he'd call in Lestrade and make a quick break for Baker Street, John would giggle and...

No. John wasn't here. Sherlock would just lead Lestrade in the right direction, then quietly disappear before there could be any paperwork. John had always handled the paperwork anyway.

"Hmm, four ideas," Sherlock said. "I need to see the attic."

"The... The attic?" Lestrade looked baffled, but duly headed for the stairs, shouting to Anderson. Something about the hatch in the ceiling. Sherlock didn't hear the rest as he slipped out of the front door and towards the abandoned garages half a mile away.

\------

Sherlock tossed a handful of notes at the cab driver and hauled himself out onto the street. The big black door of 221b seemed warm and welcoming and it was with a deep inhale that he quietly let himself in. He breathed in the comforting scent of home and allowed just one shiver of longing to swell in his chest before ruthlessly squashing it back down.

John would not be here. There would be no tea and bandages in the kitchen while John tended his wounds and tutted under his breath and called Sherlock a prat and an annoying dick and an idiot, all with that fondness he had had, that fondness that wrapped around Sherlock's heart like a blanket, that tenderness in John's voice Sherlock would give anything, anything at all, to hear just one more time.

He stumbled up the stairs as silently as he could he manage, one hand clutching the banister while the other wrapped around his bruised and aching chest. The gang had had knives. And heavy boots. And fists. And Sherlock had been careless, cornered and outnumbered. They'd gotten several good swings of feet and fists and blades before Lestrade and his team had caught up. His ribs had taken a beating, as had his back, and his face must be a veritable Jackson Pollock of bruises and cuts. His lip was definitely split and his nose had been bleeding at some point.

Lestrade had tried to insist on an ambulance but had given up when Sherlock had simply walked away, making sure to be seen hailing a cab. The effort in throwing up his arm at the side of the road had pulled agonisingly on the slashes in his skin and he could feel his tattered shirt sticking to his skin where the blood had dried. Luckily none of the gang were particularly adept with their chosen weapons and the cuts felt as though they would be mostly superficial, none should require stitches. John would've known for sure, but Sherlock would clean himself, patch up the worst of them and fall into bed. Sleep. Sleep would help him heal. He pushed open the flat door with almost closed eyes and sighed heavily. He shrugged off his coat in the doorway, opened his eyes and froze.

John was standing there. _John._

"John?"

Sherlock winced internally at how small and fragile his voice sounded. John just stared. He looked utterly furious, ready to beat the shit out of anything in his sight which dared to move.

"John, I-," Sherlock started, then stopped, suddenly unsure. John just stared and stared, taking in every bruise, every tear, every cut, every drop of blood staining Sherlock's skin, hair and clothes. Sherlock shuddered and began talking at twice his normal pace, anything just to make John stay. Be here, be near to Sherlock again. Stay, he pleaded silently. Just stay. You don’t have to touch me, or treat my wounds or come anywhere close to me. Just, please, please stay.

"Case. Kidnapping. Victim's ex-boyfriend, found some unsavoury individuals to help him grab her from her house. Revenge of sorts. Lestrade was on the right lines for once, just didn't observe the obvious signs. As usual. I tracked the gang, well I say gang, it was really just three racists thugs and a clueless ex in way over his head. Anyway. I tracked them to some nearby garages, it was the dirt, there were traces of... Doesn't matter. My text had gone unread for at least five minutes, but fortunately it had only taken the officers another five or so to get to the garage where the victim had been held. She was shaken and terrified but thankfully unhurt. I didn't factor in the knives. Stupid, stupid. Stings a bit but it's fine. You... You would've been busy. Not to worry though, I'm still in one piece. You didn't need to come, certainly not at this time of night. It's a trek for you now, all the way to Westminster. So, it's all fine John, you can go home now, I can-"

"SIT!"

The word echoed in the sitting room. Sherlock felt himself drop like a lead balloon onto the sofa, tugging on his cuts again. He hissed under his breath, but quickly recovered himself. He straightened up stiffly, determined to meet John's eyes.

John stalked towards him and loomed over him on the sofa. His proximity was intoxicating and Sherlock was drowning in it. He closed his eyes and steeled himself for the onslaught.

The punch. The harsh words. The emptiness. John was sure to leave. This time, forever.

\------


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of everything that's happened, John has withdrawn and feels more wounded than ever. He won't touch anyone unless he's offering medical assistance, barely tolerates being at Baker Street and never stays, always going back to that horrid flat in the suburbs. Sherlock desperately wants to help John heal, but John knows it's all his fault. Whatever Sherlock is struggling with now, John knows he is the one to blame.
> 
> John is still here, in spite of the dangers he brought down on everyone around him. And Sherlock tolerates him, still takes John along on some of the cases, still as brilliant and incredible as ever. And John is terrified. He knows what it's like to almost lose Sherlock, he's almost lost him so many times. He can't lose him again, and he cannot hurt him again. It's too dangerous to be close to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was born of Jam's need to have a touch-starved Sherlock try to help a broken John. And I literally cannot help myself when Jam suggests something. So there was no dragging, I came along willingly and brought the ANGST (with a capital A). Jam framed the story with her spot-on Sherlock and, as per usual, John runs in right on Sherlock's heels. I made it worse. >:) ~Ewebie

It was a mistake. It was all one, big, laughable, stupid, absurd, terrible, painful mistake. And John stared at the full tumbler of whiskey on the counter, where it sat next to his restlessly drumming fingers. He sucked his entire lower lip between his teeth and huffed a breath heavily from his nose. It had actually been a day. A good day. One of those rare days where everything slotted into place, where he and Sherlock moved like clockwork - seamlessly coordinated and synchronized, where he’d felt useful. He pursed his lips and stilled his hand flat on the worktop, eying the slight bruising on his knuckles. The bastard shouldn’t have run.

John gave a sharp nod and tapped the counter once, picking up the tumbler and taking a generous swig. The burning felt good. A familiar assault on his senses. Good. Bad. Both. Like being in Baker Street. He shouldn’t have followed Sherlock home. Not that he had. More like, Sherlock hadn’t implied that the cab was going anywhere but Baker Street. And they were already debating the finer merits of financial fraud. And it had been habit. Instinct. Routine. Exit the cab, climb the seventeen steps, hang jacket on the coat peg, continue to argue with Sherlock from the comfort of a worn, tartan armchair. It had been cold outside. Dark already. And Sherlock had cautiously suggested dinner. And John had hesitated. Why? Why!

He paced from the kitchen, absently noting the horrible curtains, the atrocious couch, the ugly throw rug that covered half of the sitting room. Creamy walls didn’t seem upbeat, but faded, dusky, worn and false and disturbing. He took another generous sip of the whiskey and scrubbed at his face. He was tired. That was all. Exhaustion. Work, and cases, and running around, and deliberately and resolutely avoiding the emotional wreckage that was his soul. Out of habit again, maybe, he found himself at the top of the stairs, stopping just short of crossing into the master suite. He glared through the open door at a room that was never truly his, a bed that had never brought rest, at sheets he hadn’t chosen. And he clenched his jaw and turned away, blinking back whatever was trying to crack through the levees he’d reinforced around his rage.

That was also a mistake. Because directly in his line of sight was now the other room. Door closed. Door always closed. John felt his chest heave. I blinked at the glass in his hand, an odd floral pattern, and bile choked the back of his throat. How or when the glass left his hand, he didn’t really care. The shattering glass was a token satisfaction, but lacking. He watched the amber liquid trickle down the wall, soaking into carpet and linens, and glisten with all the glinting shards of glass. Good. It looked how he felt.

It was nearly midnight. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stay in the flat. He was suffocating, slowing choking over the ghosts of everything that could have been that never was and never could be and never should have been and it was too much and too little and nothing left. He slammed the door in his wake, crammed his hands into his jacket pockets and stalked down the road. He was miles from anything that would be open at this hour, and he didn’t care. He needed to move. Burn off the rage that would shred him from the inside out if he let it.

He lost track of time and maybe, a little bit lost where he was, and when he finally made it back to the illusion of suburban perfection, it was late enough to be indecent. He tossed his jacket onto one of the horrible chairs, and dropped onto the hideous couch, and used one of the cheery throws as a blanket, settled in for something that was not even a close approximation to sleep.

His mobile rang in the rare dark and quiet that only came in the wee hours of the morning. The glaring glow of the screen told him it was just after two, and he almost answered on instinct. Late night - early morning calls were never good, but he’d spent a lifetime picking up without thought, without needing to be fully awake. But it wasn’t instinct that had him connecting the call, it was the caller: Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs Hudson didn’t call him. At least, not recently. After their tenuous reconciliation months ago. After all the calls he’d ignored while Sherlock had been dead. After the cryptic conversations, the motherly advice that he’d ignored out of bull-headed hurt, the side-eyes she’d given Mary, the kid-gloves with which she’d handled Sherlock… John couldn’t even bear to look her in the eye on the odd times they’d met in Baker Street. How could he? She’d seen it coming a mile away, and he didn’t listen to her warning. And look what that had gotten him. Look at what it had gotten everyone. Everyone was hurt. Everyone. And when John saw her, he could only see Sherlock’s near death, Sherlock’s near jail time, Sherlock’s near banishment, Sherlock’s near nearly something. And it was all his fault. Everything was always his fault. And he couldn’t look Mrs. Hudson in the eye the same way he couldn’t bear her gentle embrace, or her pecks on the cheek, or her knowing looks.

And the way he bristles at her polite contact is the only shelter he has. He can’t look her in the eye, and he couldn’t be near Sherlock. God forbid he nearly kill his best friend again. And John Watson certainly can’t bear to touch him, because all he can see if he has a hand on Sherlock’s skin is the blood pouring out from between his own fingers and that feeling of absolute desperateness that had him praying. Again. John Watson had prayed. And this was his penance. Self-imposed abstinence. Before he could damage anything else or anyone else with his fucking cursed touch. Healing hands? Not anymore.

But for all his self-reproach, when Mrs. Hudson calls, John answers. He can’t not answer her. Not after the way she looked in on him, looked after him really. Looked in on Sherlock and fed John little reports through innocent texts that he could take or leave based on his mood, but never would leave Sherlock in a lurch. Sending John to interpret, to run interference, to run after him, to run - literally and figuratively. He owes her. So he connects the call.

It was both a quick and lengthy call as Mrs. Hudson flustered through a worried diatribe from which John could only glean that Sherlock had left, gone off somewhere. And he was alone, and he wasn’t back, and it was so very late, and she was so incredibly worried. And even before he was fully awake, John was agreeing to come over. To go back to Baker Street, so that she doesn’t have to wait alone. In the back of his mind, he knows she will be in her flat, and he will be up in B, waiting separately. Together and alone. He pushed himself off of the couch, crammed his feet back into his shoes, and tugged his jacket on.

It was a taxi to Baker Street. No other way at this hour. And Mrs. Hudson was up as he let himself in. He tolerated the embrace for her sake rather than his own. And he tolerated the tea that she’d compulsively made. She tutted and wrung her hands, and only calmed when John promised he’d be upstairs. That he’d keep vigil so she could sleep. And even then, only when he promised he’d stay in his old room if necessary. He had no intention to sleep upstairs. He had every intention of staying awake in a seething rage until Sherlock returned.

John paced across the well-worn rug of the sitting room. Thinking first. It was late, but she was on the night shift this week. She’d be awake, he told himself as he rang Molly. He rang her first, because if she knew where Sherlock was, it would give John another log to fuel his smoldering rage. She answered on the second ring, but she didn’t know. And John knows that she won’t lie to him. Not anymore, not again. He can tell now. Molly has tells and she can’t even manage a little white lie on the phone to him anymore. She stuttered out a quick he-was-here-but-he-left-hours-ago-sorry. She promised to call if he returned. A small part of him lit with guilt. She could feel the heat in his voice over the phone, and she let those blows fall where they would, because she still believed that John deserved to blame her as much as he felt the need to lay blame.

He rang Greg next, deciding if he couldn’t get through to Greg, he still had Mycroft on speed dial. Then again, a rude gesture to the nearest CCTV would do the trick just as well, and might be more satisfying. Thankfully, Greg answered with an exhausted hello. It was only with a practiced ear that John could tell tired and woken from sleep from tired and needing sleep. Greg needed sleep. But he wearily told John that Sherlock had just been with him. That he’d just put Sherlock in a cab and sent him home. The thank you that rolled off of John’s tongue was sincere only until he disconnected the line.

Then John understood what Lestrade had just told him. He had put Sherlock in a cab. Put him. Put. In a cab. As if he couldn’t go on his own volition. And John started to pace again. Greg understood. He got it. He knew. He managed to negotiate the volatile friendship that Sherlock and John had rebuilt in the wake of John’s absolute minefield of a marriage. Greg knew. And he always did what he could to smooth ruffled feathers on both sides. He would tell John where Sherlock is, apologize for not calling, lie through his teeth that he didn’t have a free hand rather than the truth that Sherlock had probably sworn up and down that John was too busy or John was sleeping or John was not able for it, because Sherlock didn’t want John there. Sherlock didn’t want him. Not anymore.

John stopped mid stride and let out a ragged huff. Greg had put Sherlock in a cab. He knew what that meant. He took a deep breath and put on his brave face, then he shook it off and replaced it with his doctor face and tread softly on the stairs to tell Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was on his way home. That he’d be home soon. And that John would wait up, but she should sleep. And once Sherlock was home, John would do his utmost to keep the noise to a minimum. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm, tutted after him, and told him there would be tea in the morning, that he wasn’t to go home at this late hour, and she always kept his room ready. John’s smile was more of a grimace, a false and broken thing that made him flatten his face and nod and shoo her off to bed.

The seventeen steps took ages. And by the time he reached the sitting room again, John felt a decade older. He tried to sit, but it doesn’t take. He tried, but he can’t. John stood and resumed his pacing. Back and forth. Wearing a slow hole in the carpet. Put him in a cab. Pu. Him. In. A. Cab. John was going to kill him. It had gone half two in the morning and he was going to murder him. Poor Mrs. Hudson and the floors of this flat, because when John got his hands on Sherlock, he was going to beat the ever-loving tar out of him for being so bloody, sodding-well stupid! The fists John made were no longer conscious as he stomped back and forth across the narrow space left in the room. All the air had been sucked out. All the dust. All the mess. And Jesus, could Sherlock bother to clean a fucking mug once in awhile? He was going to wring his perfect, alabaster neck!

It was the sigh that did it.

The sigh would be the last sound that Sherlock Holmes would bloody well make. Because Sherlock sighed as he came home as if he was sodding put out that someone was waiting up for him. Sighed like John was a nervous pet or a nagging wife or some sort of fucking burden and John was spitting fire as he turned around. His ears were practically ringing with his own rage. He was going to incinerate Sherlock Holmes with a single look. He was going to… He was going… to…

John could see Sherlock’s lips moving, and Sherlock was speaking. Probably. John wasn’t sure he heard it. Something about Lestrade. Something about a gang. Something about… something… But there was blood. It was the first thing John definitively saw. Blood.

Blood.

All over Sherlock’s face. Blood. Streaked from his nose, his lip, a lac over his left brow. Blood. Ran down the side of his face. It looked like… looked… just like… No. John shook himself. Black eye. Lac on forehead. Slices in his shirt. Blood. His right knee was bleeding, his trousers torn. And the way he was standing, shifting, there was more. More blood. More injury. More that John couldn’t see and couldn’t put his hands on and couldn’t stop.

And Sherlock was still talking. He spoke. Rambled. Babbled. The words no longer made sense. Don’t worry. Don’t need. All fine. And John couldn’t decide what he felt anymore, except that he was either about to shout or vomit or both. And he figured he’d better decide before his gut decided for him. And John Watson fell back on what made him comfortable. He shouted. Barked really. Just one word.

“SIT!”

And Sherlock dropped onto the couch like a marionette with his strings cut. He winced as he hit the cushions, but then straightened stiffly and blinked up at John. When had his feet taken him across the room? When had John even crossed to the couch. When had he found his med kit? When…


	3. Mrs. Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of everything that's happened, John has withdrawn and is avoiding Baker Street and all of its occupants. He won't touch anyone unless he's offering medical assistance, barely tolerates a peck on the cheek, always going back to that horrid flat in the suburbs. Sherlock desperately wants to help John heal, but he's caught up in a vicious circle of self-reproach and lack of necessity. And whatever the boys seem to think, they're blaming themselves, and darn straight.
> 
> Sherlock is still here, despite everything that John has put him through. He's taking on cases again, but he's so fragile too. John cannot lose Sherlock again, so he makes sure to keep his best friend at arm's length, for his own safety. It's too dangerous to be close to John. John is still here, in spite of the dangers he brought down on everyone around him. And Sherlock tolerates him. And John is terrified. He knows what it's like to almost lose Sherlock, he can't lose him again, and he cannot hurt him again. It's too dangerous to be close to Sherlock.
> 
> And if these boys don't start talking to each other, Martha Hudson will not be held responsible for her actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was born of Jam's need to have a touch-starved Sherlock try to help a broken John. And I literally cannot help myself when Jam suggests something. So there was no dragging, I came along willingly and brought the ANGST (with a capital A). Jam framed the story with her spot-on Sherlock and, as per usual, John runs in right on Sherlock's heels. Then Jam wrote a nice little Mrs. Hudson fluff... I have... edited. So it's... a resolution, of sorts. ~Ewebie

Martha Hudson listened with a heavy heart to John's stomping footsteps in the flat above. Oh, Sherlock. How could you? You silly, silly boy, she thought, wringing her hands absently. She'd promised John she would go to bed but she was too worried. Worried about Sherlock, haring off on his own again like he used to; he hadn't done that in so long. Worried about John, striding back and forth across her rugs, clenching his hands at his sides. Worried about all the people that Sherlock helped, and that cared about him, and that worried for him. Even Mycroft. She worried about him too. Martha tightened her thick dressing gown around herself and sighed, settling into her chair by the fire. She would wait up. At least a little longer. She was too worried to sleep right now.

Her boys had been through so much, both together and apart. She'd been there right at the start, to see Sherlock's eyes light up at John, to see Sherlock bring colour back to John's life after so long in shades of beige and grey. They fit together, belonged at each other's side, anyone who merely glanced at them could see it. Everyone who knew them could see it. But it was so tentative and unspoken between them and it made Martha's heart break to see them so uncertain and cautious. 

And of course, Sherlock had to upset the balance, Sherlock had to make the mistake that toppled their slowly growing peace. Not that John was entirely innocent in all this, certainly not. Though how he'd managed to drift so far without Sherlock... She'd tried to encourage them the right direction, in her way, but her boys were nothing if not stubborn. And nothing shy of their own inexhaustibly foolish bullheaded perseverance would move them forward again. And now Sherlock was gone off to God knows where getting into God knows what. She couldn't bear to lose him again and neither could John. And John had only just left a few hours before, and a single phone call could bring him tearing back here. Bless. But that temper, and that anger, and the frustration as he paced upstairs. 

Oh, silly, silly Sherlock! Martha sniffled and rubbed her nose on her sleeve. Pull yourself together, goddammit, she scolded herself. Sherlock would come back and John would tell him off and it would all go back to normal. Well, almost normal. Back to the normal they had right now in the not normal space they were in. Soon John would come back, stay in his room at the top of the stairs again, instead of that horrid flat of his, stuffed with those... ghosts. And Sherlock would start eating again and playing his violin properly, and not destroying her crockery. It wasn't healthy, all that brooding and pining, the pair of them. And if nothing else, she thought selfishly, it wasn't doing her heart any good watching them dance around each other unhappily! It would just take one of them to take that first step, to make that leap into the unknown, and Martha was sure the other would catch him. They deserve to be happy, she thought sadly, if they could just see what was right in front on them. 

The click of the front door lock shook her from her melancholy thoughts. Sherlock! He was home. Back. Where he belonged. Oh Sherlock- she was halfway to her door when she stopped herself. No, this time she would not interfere. John was in a terrible state upstairs and they needed their privacy (for once). And she couldn't stand between as a buffer.

She listened to Sherlock's heavy tread on the stairs, his stumbling and her heart gave a lurch. He was moving slowly and clumsily, with none of his usual grace and speed. He must be hurt, she thought, tears prickling her eyes again. Oh, John would be so furious! She could only hope that neither of them did or said something stupid. 

John's pacing had stopped. It was eerily quiet upstairs and Martha fretted in her dressing gown, going into her kitchen and digging around in the biscuit tin for her cigarettes. She lit one, hand trembling and took a deep drag of the smoke. It was a comforting ritual, one she and Sherlock had often shared and John pretended not to notice. Maybe it could calm her nerves as her imagination spun any number of desperate scenarios.

Sherlock's voice was muffled when he started speaking to John, saying something, a long something, rambling. John was silent and it seemed as though there would be no answer. Then came the shout.

"SIT!"

Martha jumped at the volume and force in John's tone. She stubbed out the cigarette and made up her mind. She would go up, just to check on them, to make sure Sherlock wasn't seriously hurt and John was okay, see if they needed tea, or biscuits, or something. It was what she could do. Diffuse the tempers and egos. Quietly, she snuck out of her flat and crept up the stairs, avoiding the creaky ones. She was halfway up when she heard the soft moan. Definitely Sherlock's voice. He must be very badly injured to sound like that! Forcing herself to ignore the twinge in her hip, Martha climbed up to B and opened her mouth to call out to her boys. 

The door to the flat was wide open and Martha stopped in her tracks, and she had to tamp down on the sniff of tears at the sight which greeted her. 

Sherlock and John were leaning into each other, Sherlock perched on the edge of the sofa, John kneeling in front of him, in between Sherlock's ridiculously long legs. Their eyes were closed, their foreheads pressed together, their arms around each other, hands buried in clothing, gripping tightly to wool coat and thin jacket. They were breathing softly, silently, lost in the closeness of the other. It was simple. Such a simple embrace. And so full of love. And Martha Hudson almost thought herself blinded by the brightness of it all, when she realised she was watching through a veil of tears. She averted her eyes and started back down to her flat. The intimacy of the moment she'd witnessed was too fragile and delicate and so long in coming that she couldn't bring herself to let anything break it. And certainly not herself. To think of them finally together, as it always should have been! Allowing herself a tiny squeak of joy Martha stepped through her door and closed it. 

The second moan that came from upstairs was unmistakeable, and most definitely Sherlock. Well, John hardly had any reason to say his own name, especially quite like that. 

Eyes widening and filthy grin spreading unbidden across her face, Martha chuckled as she closed her door and headed for her comfy bed. She rummaged through her bedside table for some ear plugs. No need to eavesdrop, really... She could make them blush in the morning. Just a little teasing. Serves them right for waiting so long.


	4. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been nothing if not inconvenient that his younger brother constantly managed to repel common sense. More inconvenient of course was his choice in partner. A partner seemingly as incapable of rational behavior. Yes, Sherlock was childish, selfish, emotionally labile, egotistical... But that did not warrant social involvement with the seedier variables of London's crime world. More than anything, Mycroft knew that Sherlock and Dr. Watson simply needed to communicate. And they were appallingly poor in every attempt.
> 
> Regardless, it had been brought to his attention that a recent case had ended in a less than satisfactory manner necessitating Dr. Watson's presence in Baker Street. And Mycroft Holmes needed to put his own mind at ease when it came to Sherlock's well-being. After all, he was the only brother he had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was born of Jam's need to have a touch-starved Sherlock try to help a broken John. And I literally cannot help myself when Jam suggests something. We decided that there needed to be an epilogue of sorts... And after much debate and pillow throwing and smut talk and biscuits, we decided that a detached, outside observer would keep us in line and make sure this actually... ends... in a way... So. Here's Mycroft to bring the story to a close (sort of) ~Ewebie

It was becoming rather insufferable, making these trips. It wasn’t on his way. It wasn’t near anything or anyone to whom he would even consider leaving Whitehall to pander. And yet, it seemed that another late night and concerned word whispered in his ear was enough to force his hand and delay his schedule only to find that his esteemed brother was having himself a lie-in.

Perhaps more alarming was that Dr. Watson had been concerned enough to stay in his upstairs room, most likely due to the late hour at which he was called back. Though it quite possibly was due to the state in which Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street, if the state in which he parted company with New Scotland Yard was any indication. Or if the bandage wrappers and extra bits of plasters and gauze with the rusty tinge of blood were indication; who could tell anymore with Sherlock. Regardless, Dr. Watson had had his work cut out for him in the wee hours, and there were far worse places for him to kip for the night. Worse places that Mycroft himself had endeavored to make safe on more than one occasion in the past few years.

All things considered, by his estimate, Sherlock would rise in the next quarter of an hour and seek out stimulant of some sort, and small blessings it would be coffee or tea rather than something stronger. Though Mycroft would not be shocked if he was needed to step in and diffuse the more powerful cravings, any temptation would likely be deterred by Dr. Watson’s presence in the flat. Thus making his own job easier, if not conceivably more verbally abusive.

“Yoo hoo! Boys!”

Mycroft tucked his mobile back in his breast pocket and considered the burdensome tray clattering on the table in Mrs. Hudson’s wake. Ostensibly, she was just their landlord. In more practical terms, she was like their favorite grand aunt that doted and spoilt them with baked goods and attention, and had nothing even resembling a bark or bite. She’d scold them from time to time, but it held the same venom as a newborn kitten. She enjoyed their antics. Tolerated the noise and destruction. And tutted when things were not on the level. Handy having her phones tapped, though. It often allowed Mycroft the slightest peace of mind when he knew Dr. Watson would be overseeing the fallout of a particularly… destructive day. Then again, at her age, more excitement than necessary couldn’t be good for her. Mycroft cleared his throat lightly.

“Oh!” She startled anyway and spotted him in Sherlock’s chair. “Mycroft! You gave me a fright. I didn’t hear you come in!”

The smile was one that he knew looked false. It was a political, polite society expression that spoke more to duty than any overt emotion. “Perhaps you had not yet removed your earplugs.” Pipes creaked and Mycroft was glad his estimate of Sherlock’s sleep was on the far side of perfectly accurate.

The grin she flashed his way was mildly disturbing, and Mycroft only just managed to keep from frowning as the smile melted from his face. “Oh, yes. I quite forgot about those.”

The question had been on the tip of his tongue. Had the battle been loud enough to necessitate earplugs? Surely, as much as they bickered, Dr. Watson would have the decency to keep it to a minimum at three in the morning. Sherlock, certainly not. But Dr. Watson? He was saved from asking, though deeply regretted the form in which his salvation came, by the very same Dr. Watson stumbling from the loo, in just his pants and what Mycroft would only describe as pleased smile on his face.

Mycroft felt the corners of his mouth pull down in spite of himself. That had been well missed. It was about time he reinstalled the surveillance in Baker Street. Not only was John Watson bedecked in only his pants, but his hair was disheveled in such a fashion that it left nothing to the imagination as to how it came to stick out at odd angles. And for the love of God… A hickey on his neck. Childish.

“Oh, erm, Mrs. Hudson.” Dr. Watson flushed out to his ears. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize…”

Mrs. Hudson waved off his apology. “Never you mind. I brought up tea and coffee, and just finished this batch of scones, dearie.”

“Sherlock!” Dr. Watson crossed his arms over his chest and hollered over his shoulder. “You didn’t tell me Mrs. Hudson was here, you giant berk.”

“But I wanted tea.”

“None of that, now,” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “I didn’t come to disturb, just thought you ought to have something nice and fresh this morning, after the late night.”

Dr. Watson actually blushed down his neck at that. Mycroft felt his stomach turn over. Of course this had been a possibility. A very real and well tested theoretical, and one for which Mycroft had prepared thoroughly. Then again, he had suspected that it had fallen slightly from inevitable to likely in the wake of Sherlock’s rather gross emotionally stunted behavior, but Dr. Watson had always been… unusual, unpredictable himself.

“I’ll just nip in for my robe, won’t be a tick,” Dr. Watson’s voice was leaden with embarrassment, thick enough it almost made Mycroft sigh with the unnecessary nature of it.

Before he could retreat, Sherlock exited the bedroom, wrapped in his customary sheet toga, though it bore more skin than the usual draping. He thrust a tee-shirt into Dr. Watson’s hands, rumbling something low that only the good doctor could hear. Something that brought the bright flush up the back of his neck as he scrambled to pull the shirt over his head and tried to pat his hair flat.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson clucked, one of her hands brushing his cheek beneath a blooming black eye. Even from across the distance, Mycroft could read the stiffness in his brother’s gait, the hesitance in his movements. Injuries concealed. Mostly minor. Mostly soft-tissue. Albeit slower to heal at his age and state of being. All well tended. Not a single mark on him would be the result of Dr. Watson’s hands. Unlike the hickey on Dr. Watson’s neck.

“Yes, tea would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said smoothly, manhandling Dr. Watson back into the kitchen and towards the tray. “And John will have coffee. And… My brother will have tea, no sugar, no scone for him. How _is_ the diet, Mycroft?”

Dr. Watson stiffened, planting his feet and crossing his arms, forcing Sherlock to brush past him as he glared. He’d never taken fondly to finding Mycroft comfortably situated in their home. Then again, this hadn’t definitively been Dr. Watson’s home for the past nearly two years. Though, if he was being gracious, and Mycroft liked to think himself more gracious than others deserved, Baker Street had always been Dr. Watson’s home as much as it had been Sherlock’s. “Mycroft.” His name was given with a terse nod. And Mycroft suspected it was out of self-defense, as well as protective irritation.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson. I see you’ve slept.”

“Please,” Sherlock huffed as he collapsed artfully across the couch. “Say whatever you need, and get out. I don’t have the patience for you today.”

“Sherlock,” Dr. Watson admonished mildly.

“Tea,” Sherlock held out his hand. “And a scone. With butter.”

“You look no more worse for the wear, brother mine.” Mycroft watched the expression play across Sherlock’s face, the wince as he struggled to keep the flattened expression from his bruised face. “Nothing a capable doctor cannot treat without adequate attention and care.”

Dr. Watson choked into his mug. Sherlock practically grinned. “He does have quite spectacularly talented fingers.” Dr. Watson choked again, spluttering loudly for a moment. Mrs. Hudson made a concerned noise. “John, tea?”

“Inappropriate, Sherlock,” Dr. Watson grumbled, though it did not escape Mycroft’s notice that he was busy buttering a scone, and Dr. Watson did prefer jam. “Don’t be lazy. You’ve got legs, come get your tea yourself.”

“But John,” Sherlock pouted. “I’m sore.”

“You’ve had worse.” Dr. Watson scolded. “I’ve treated worse.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock’s voice dropped into a low purr. “I wasn’t talking about the injuries.”

Dr. Watson froze, his face turning bright red. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Now he was being petulant. It was a mild discomfort that wasn’t enough to make Mycroft balk. “If you insist on being childish about this, I will treat you as a child.”

Sherlock huffed. “Are you going to be ‘Mother’?”

Mycroft blinked a few times, waiting for Dr. Watson to reach his seat on the sofa. No need to alarm the man further, or risk scalds while he balanced the two mugs. “You’ve already heard my input on the matter. I know how you despise repetition.”

“Are we discussing having ‘the talk’?” Dr. Watson cocked a brow as he sipped his coffee. “Bit late for that now, isn’t it?” It was Sherlock’s turn to blush. Mycroft took a slow, measured breath, which triggered a snicker from Sherlock. Dr. Watson grinned. “I meant that you’re in your thirties, you git.”

Mycroft was ever grateful that his mobile opted to buzz at that moment. It was merely his assistant. Strict instructions to which she infallibly adhered: text on the reverse Fibonacci sequence from twenty-one minutes. Ensure escape where necessary.

_Liber Abaci, Sir._

He replaced his mobile and gave the pair on the couch a rather bland look. “Perhaps you’d rather hold court with something more of a paternal figure. You always were more responsive to that as a child.”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed. “As though you could find someone to fill that position.”

Mycroft couldn’t resist the faint upturn at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure Gregory could find the time between the end of the work day and when I expect him for dinner.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, sitting up sharply.

Dr. Watson sputtered again, replacing his mug on the table to cough into his shoulder. Mycroft decided that further discretion would be the better part of valor and pushed out of the chair.

“No!” Sherlock hissed, digging his fingers into his curls. “Delete!”

“Sherlock,” Dr. Watson was biting back a laugh now. “Calm down, luv.”

“John, this is an abomination! Delete!” He wrinkled his nose, winced as the expression aggravated his injuries, and frowned. “Delete! Oh God! Delete!”

Dr. Watson threw his head back and laughed at the tantrum. Suited. The pair of them. And as much as Mycroft approved, he didn’t dare show it. “That’s quite enough, Sherlock. Detective Inspector Lestrade is an adult. Which is far more than I can say about your carryings on. Now, I must be going.”

“Going?” Sherlock grumbled. “Going to meet your boyfriend?”

Mycroft grinned viciously. “I knew there was a reason, I had the soundproofing installed in my office.”

“Oh for God’s sake! DELETE!” Sherlock threw himself face first into Dr. Watson’s abdomen, plugging his ears like a toddler.

“Hush,” Dr. Watson nuzzled the space between Sherlock’s cheek and shoulder as Mrs. Hudson delivered a plate full of prepared scones and made a soft cooing noise, clapping her hands together and retreating to the kitchen. “Eat your breakfast.”

“But it hurts, John.”

“Then I’ll kiss it better,” Dr. Watson murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Not there, John,” Sherlock pouted. Dr. Watson blushed again.

That was certainly his queue to leave. This was devolving into something disturbing. Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor with a single sharp snap. “And now, I may successfully maintain an adequate diet as I have completely lost my appetite. As it stands, Myanmar has finally elected a president with more wit than brawn, and I ought congratulate her.”

Dr. Watson cleared his throat and nodded, ever the sensible one. “Mycroft. Give my best to Greg.”

Sherlock hissed like a dampened cat. “Go away!”

“Offer remains, Sherlock. Should you need… fatherly advice.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Dr. Watson grumbled as Sherlock burrowed back against his abdomen.

It was a true challenge to keep the smile from his face as he left. He kept his gait precise and measured, even in the face of Mrs. Hudson dampened smile as she tidied the kitchen. He managed to shut the door evenly in his wake, cross to the vehicle idling at the curb, and settle in the dimmed interior before sighing and pinching in brow.

“Sir, everything alright?”

He looked up and pressed his lips together in something bordering a smile. “Quite. If you could move my four o’clock an hour earlier, I expect it will take longer than the two hours and I would rather not be late for the dinner this evening. I will be getting an earful enough without being late.”

“Of course, Sir.” Anthea nodded and resumed her constant occupation with her mobile. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you, my dear.” He retrieved his own mobile and sent a quick text of his own.

_I fear I may have let the cat out of the bag. Though one might worry about his observational skills that it has taken this long. Please ignore any and all references to myself, our relationship, and deleting for the remainder of the day. I look forward to dinner. -MH_


End file.
